


Throw Away The Typical

by masterroadtripper



Series: Love Makes the World a Better Place [1]
Category: The Greatest Showman (2017)
Genre: F/M, Internalized Homophobia, Internalized Transphobia, M/M, POV Original Character, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Period-Typical Sexism, Transphobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-27
Updated: 2018-03-02
Packaged: 2019-03-24 21:45:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 12,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13820040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/masterroadtripper/pseuds/masterroadtripper
Summary: Soren Bachmeier, the child of a German baron joins the Barnum Circus.





	1. Fever

Everything was foggy as Sören picked his way through the backstreets of New York. His head felt like it was burning up and his feet were heavy on the pavement. Looking up to the sky, Sören felt snow hitting his face, but it didn’t help the pounding that he felt against his forehead or the tightness of his ribcage. Maybe I should have stayed in Germany, Sören thought.

Walking along the uneven cobblestones of New York City, he stumbled and after trying to regain footing and failing, Sören sat down. The ground was cold, wet and dirty but there was nowhere else he wanted to be. Closing his eyes to try to clear the fog and the pounding pain, Sören found it hard to reopen them.

 _I’ve had a good twelve years_ , Sören thought. The darkness seeped into the edges of his vision and Sören felt his head slouching and the life draining from his body. Just going with it, Sören could feel the heat receding from his forehead and the tightness in his head disappearing. It was better this way, Sören decided, closing his eyes.

 

Sören was sure heaven would feel better than this.

He hurt, his head was pounding and the bright light beside him made his eyes ache. _I am not in heaven,_ Sören decided. But he was not feeling so hot, and the tightness in his chest had been alleviated. Tightness, Sören panicked, _where did it go_? The tightness in his chest was gone and Sören suddenly felt the fear rising through his limbs until he forced his eyes open and to sit up.

Shooting up from where he lay, his back protested its sudden and violent movement. Eyes adjusting to his surroundings and simultaneously pulling the sheet draped over his shoulders tighter around him Sören looked around. There was no one that he could see, but he was definitely in a tent of some sort, judging by the freely moving red and yellow fabric above his head. A big tent. A really big tent. And in the area he was previously laying, he was surrounded by crates. Hay covered the floor and on a box in the corner, he spotted his clothing. Meaning at some point, someone undressed him.

The panic and fear mixed in Sören’s gut as he slowly stood and made his way to his pile of clothing. Rifling through the tattered and worn heap of fabric, Sören was sorely disappointed in the lack of the fabric strip that he had used around his chest since coming to America. Figuring that whomever brought him here knew what would be under the makeshift binding, Sören decided and hoped that maybe they didn’t care. Pulling on the rough underwear, pants and shirt, he abandoned the blanket on the bed.

Slowly walking through the maze of boxes that had not yet been cracked open, Sören followed the sound of voices. Simultaneously watching the roof slope up into a beautiful arc, he knew where in New York he was. Down by the docks in the massive tent that the Barnum Circus had erected a few months ago. At least he would not be the weirdest thing that these people had ever seen. Hopefully. Maybe.

Eventually as he lurked closer to the voices a loud, low roar pierced the air. Yelling and throwing himself to the ground, Sören looked around to see where the noise came from. It was like nothing he had ever heard and had no idea what could have possibly have made the noise.

“Hey,” someone said, putting a hand on Sören’s shoulder. Expecting attack, he jumped to his feet and brought his arms up in defence. The other person - a man in a black top hat and red coat with the brightest blue eyes he had ever seen - raised his hands in the universal “I’m not here to hurt you” sign. Lowering his guard as the well dressed man inched closer, Sören could see how young the other man looked. He was barely old enough to be Sören’s parents and based off the advertisements around town that he had seen, this man was famous.

“Are you Barnum?” Sören tried to ask, but with his voice croaky from lack of use, it sounded weird even to his ears. But this man definitely looked like the drawings of the “Great Barnum” on the banners.

“No, PT Barnum is away at the moment,” the man said, adjusting the jacket he wore, “I am his operating partner, Phillip Carlyle.” Offering his right hand, Sören followed and the man - Phillip Carlyle - shook it. “Now young man, what is your name?”

Now Sören was confused. These people likely rescued him and undressed him. But this man was using the gender Sören had been trying to present himself as for the past two years despite seeing him for who he truly was.

“Do you have a name?” Phillip Carlyle asked, removing the top hat.

Sören realized he likely took too long to answer and quickly replied, “Sören Bachmeier, sir.”

“Are you okay Sören?”

“Fine, sir,” he replied as Mr. Carlyle placed a soft yet firm grasp on his shoulder and leading him back to the small room like set up he was in before.

“You have to rest Sören. You had a really high fever. I’ll get you some food, okay?” Pointing at the makeshift bed, Sören followed Mr. Carlyle’s instructions and wrapped up in the blanket.

“Thank you sir,” Sören said tucking his legs up underneath him. Watching Mr. Carlyle turn to leave, Sören started getting comfortable again. At least this man was not too weirded out by him. But there were other people out there. He had heard their voices.

 

Sören was not really asleep, just resting his eyes, when someone ran their hand over his forehead. He could feel his blond curls shifting with the motion and after a few moments he opened his eyes. Gazing up into the eyes of a middle aged african woman, Sören felt the fear and panic coil up in his gut once again. Shifting, he tried to pull the sheet around his midsection tighter.

“Do you want something to eat?” She asked in a silky soft voice. She must be a singer, Sören thought.

Clearing his voice, Sören replied, “Yes please ma’am.”

“Anne,” she said and it took him a beat to realize that she was telling him her name.

“I’m Sören,” he responded before taking the piece of bread Anne had offered him. It was hard and had a bland taste, but it was more than he had eaten in a while.

“How are you feeling?” she asked, “You do not feel so warm.”

“Better,” Sören replied, knowing that he was answering with limited words, but had nothing else to say. He just felt overwhelmed. On that side street, Sören realized, he was prepared to die. He had wanted to die. And all of the sudden he was alive.

Maybe he was actually dead, just imagining it all.


	2. America

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How Soren got to America+meeting the troop.

“Why are you in America?” Mr. Carlyle asked from his place at the foot of the pallet Sören lay on.

He had a few newspapers tucked under his arm and was out of his ringleader costume. There had been a show last night. Sören had heard the songs, the muffled lyrics of songs, the cheers and screams of enjoyment. People having fun. Sören kind-of wished he could see it.

“I don’t have my papers, if that's what you’re asking,” Sören replied looking down at his hands. He still felt weak from the fever, his limbs moving, but not with the same intent as they used to. It was like the fever had caused a disconnect. One that was getting better, the fuzz in his head had cleared, the heat in his bones gone, but it didn’t change the fact that he wanted to get out of here as soon as possible. These people knew who he was and the longer he stayed, the more risk he was putting himself in.

“I’m not asking that, but it is good to know,” Mr. Carlyle said before continuing, “But I figured out who you are kid.” Sören opened his mouth to speak but no words came out. Two years. Two years he had passed as a man and yet Mr. Carlyle knew who he was. Now he was going to have to go on the run again. Stow away again. Start over. He’d probably have to choose a new name. And he liked Sören so damn much.

Standing from the chair, Mr. Carlyle looked at the top newspaper on his pile. “It took me a while to find all these, but thankfully, one of the performers likes to hoard the daily paper,” he said, showing off the impressive pile, “I thought you looked familiar,” taking the first sheet off the pile Mr. Carlyle put it down in front of Sören and said, “Francesca Adenauer, missing.” Continuing laying down papers, he said, “kidnapped, murdered, abducted, ran away. I recognized your face. The sketches are not great Sören, but enough to get you sent back to Germany, or worse, locked up here.”

Unwillingly, tears poured down his face, blurring his vision and making his cheeks burn. He couldn’t go back, not now, never.

“Who else knows?” Sören said wiping his nose with the back of his hand.

“Just me and Anne, no one else you don’t want to tell. You’ve thinned out in America, your face is sharper, you can convincingly lower your voice. I think you’ll be just fine if you need to be.”

 

The days passed and Sören had only yet seen Anne and Mr. Carlyle. He knew there were more people were out there somewhere. He heard them arguing at night or when they thought he was asleep.

Mr. Carlyle had asked multiple times if Sören wanted to meet other people. Yes he did. But he heard what they said about him in the wee hours of the morning. They did not want him here. Or at least one voice didn’t.

Though this morning when Mr. Carlyle brought him some breakfast, he said, “Eat up, I’m introducing you to the rest of the group.”

 

In the clearing, and likely also the dressing area, Sören could not believe the group of people who stood before him. They all looked so different. Weird. Just like him. The hand on his shoulder let up when Anne walked over to him. Now she wore a purple skin tight suit that was much more revealing than a swimsuit. And she wore a pink wig.

Sören, short for a boy, looked up to meet her eyes for the first time and she smiled before asking, “What do you want us to call you?”

“I - uh…,” Sören stumbled over his words as he watched all these people smiling at him expectantly. Except for one man. He simply stood and left the group, walking towards one of the backrooms.

“Anne, the kids had a rough few weeks,” an african man that wore the same costume as Anne said. Sören was momentarily distracted from the sudden disappearance of the man in the blue jacket.

“Let's introduce everyone else, and then you can tell us,” Anne suggested before going to sit on the lap of Mr. Carlyle. They spent the rest of the introductions gazing into each other's eyes.

Between a really short man (Charles), a bearded woman (Lettie) and a guy that the advertisements called the “dog man” (Fedo), Sören thought that Mr. Carlyle, a white-skinned, blue eyed man and Anne, an african woman being so obviously in love would be less weird than it was. And maybe it was not weird, it was just something society shamed and he had never seen before. Once he learned some of their names, Sören agreed with Anne, it was easier to share when you knew people.

Lettie Lutz, the bearded woman asked, “What’s your name?”

“Sören Bachmeier,” he said with more conviction than before with Mr. Carlyle or Anne.

“Are you a boy or a girl?” Anne asked from her location with Mr. Carlyle. Sören figured he made a face at the question, so she added, “So we can address you properly.”

Swallowing his fear and guilt, Sören said, “I’m a boy.”

“Stuck in the wrong body,” Charles said. When Sören made a slight, cautious, nodding motion, Charles continued, “That I know something about.”

“I think we all do,” Lettie added, scratching her beard, “why don’t you sit down.” Following the implicit order behind Lettie’s offer, he listened and took a seat, awkwardly, on a crate next to the brother of Anne, W.D.

Missing the security of the fabric wrapping he usually wore around his chest, Sören slouched on the crate, trying to get the rough material of his shirt to act as a veil.

“Do you want a job?” Mr. Carlyle asked. How could he take a job with this group? They would make him a woman again. He would be a joke. That was why he had hid on the train to from Wurttemberg to London and stowed away on a freight ship to New York. To get a new life. Somewhere where no one knew him, except now with Mr. Carlyle and Anne. Somewhere where he was - technically illegally - able to be himself. Somewhere where Francesca Adenauer did not exist. And no one had heard about Baron and Baroness Adenauer and their runaway daughter in a few years and people had forgotten. His face was no longer printed at all in the newspapers. He was no longer mentioned. For all America cared, Francesca Adenauer did not exist. And it was better that way.

“Calm down kid,” Mr. Carlyle said, “Don’t panic. We won’t tell no one you’re not a boy if you don’t want. We can find you an act that has nothing to do with you being either.”

“We’ll find something you’re good at,” Lettie added, “Everyone is good at something.”

“If you even want a job, that is,” Mr. Carlyle revised, “but I would suggest you took us up on our offer. Meals, clothing, a warm bed and a paycheck - that's the material incentive I can offer, but you would also get a family.”

 

They moved the pallet that he had been sleeping on to one of the staff tents. When W.D. asked where he wanted to put it, he asked if it could be beside Lettie’s. Sören had only known her for a few hours, but she made him feel safe. Safer than he had felt yet in America.

Night was getting close again and everyone had started to get ready for bed. Sören, unsure of just what to do, sat on the edge of his pallet and watched his new-found coworkers. Anne was laying on her pallet next to Mr. Carlyle with her head on his shoulder, watching whatever he was writing. W.D. was outside with Chang and Eng, the joined twins, having a smoke. Lettie had the daily newspaper spread across her lap with Gil and Landon, two gymnasts, flanking her, listening to her read softly. Fedo had a stack of papers on his lap, intently reading the spread in front of him. This group was truly a family, Sören realized, and he was the outsider. Wrapping himself in the worn blanket he had be given, Sören tried to fall asleep.


	3. Training

“Anyone know where Kirk is?” Anne asked, looking around. Sören, still wrapped in his blanket, watched the circus performers from his place on a sparkly box. Mr. Carlyle told him to just sit and watch the rehearsal.

Following very direct orders, he sat and watched everyone. They wore regular clothing and were milling around the ring while Anne tried to do a headcount. Sören could not see the man who had stormed out since yesterday, and he was glad. He had not come to the bed tent last night after his episode when he first saw Sören.

“What strike is this?” Charles asked with a little humor in his voice. The rest of the group grumbled in agreement and Anne sighed.

“He’s over three strikes, but Phillip has not yet found another animal trainer, and the animals are part of what people come to see,” Anne replied with a dry humorless tone and someone - Sören could not pinpoint the owner of the voice - groaned.

Sören had not yet seen said animals, but judging by the loud noise one managed to produce, he had no desire to meet them just yet.

 

“We will harness you to the rope - don’t worry. You won’t fall,” W.D. told him as Anne tightened the harness around Sören’s shoulders.

The trapeze. Why did it happen they needed a new trapeze performer? With Anne being pregnant - out of wedlock - with Mr. Carlyle’s baby, W.D. needed a second performer to do the trapeze act with.

Having never performed with a circus, or any physically taxing event, Sören had no idea how to do any of these activities. Mr. Carlyle decided he should try every type of act to see what he was proficient in.

But in Germany, Sören - or rather Francesca - was the eldest child of a Baron. A baron who believed that women should be educated in the tasks of the household, not real, useful activities.

So when W.D. forced Sören to climb the ladder up to one of the smallest trapeze towers and get harnessed to a rope - he was concerned. There was no catch mat below them - just the hard floor of the circus ring. But W.D. said he was attached to the rope. Even if he let go, he would still not fall.

Holding tight to the worn rope, Sören risked a glance at the floor, littered in hay and scuffed with the boots of many practices. The world started moving under his feet and he shuffled back until he hit the solid mass that was W.D.’s chest.

“Hey,” W.D. said, turning Sören by the shoulders to face him, simultaneously preventing him from looking over the edge of the platform, “You will be fine. And if you hate it, you never have to come back up this tower.”

Turning him back around, W.D. said, “Hold on,” before pushing him off the platform. The rope swung and Sören heard someone screaming. It took a few moments too long before he realized it was him.

Once his swinging slowed down, Sören risked a glance around and saw Anne, Mr. Carlyle, Lettie and W.D. standing at the edge of the ring with smiles on their faces.

Allowing the look around, Sören realized that jumping - being pushed - off the tower was not as bad as it seemed the first time. Maybe he would give it another try.

 

He couldn’t sleep. The pallet creaked under his every restless shift and, afraid of waking the entire tent, Sören got up and walked outside.

Standing, watching the red and yellow tent flap in the breeze, he could hear soft voices. Following the noise, he could recognize one of the voices very clearly. Mr. Carlyle. The other voice, rougher and not as pleasant, Sören remembered from those nights before he met the group. The one who wanted him gone. Kirk Plant, Sören remembered after their uncomfortable introduction that afternoon when he finally showed up to practice.

“I don’t care if you don’t like him,” Sören could hear Mr. Carlyle say, irritation in his voice.

“She’s gonna get caught. Arrested, killed. Then what would happen to the rest of us?” Kirk said and any speculation that Sören had that the conversation was about him was confirmed.

“No one outside this group needs to know, and no one will tell no one,” Mr. Carlyle said, voice suddenly stern and commanding

“Hopefully none of New York’s finest come see a show,” Kirk muttered and Sören watched as Mr. Carlyle grabbed two fists of the shorter man’s collar and pushed him against one of the big top’s supports.

“Just because Barnum hired you without second thought does not give you the privilege to go flapping your gums about any of your circus family. If you do, so help me you will fired as fast as you were given this family,” Mr. Carlyle said, his voice threatening.

After releasing the animal trainer’s collar, Sören watched Mr. Carlyle watch Kirk walk off into the night. Not all the staff slept at the circus grounds. Lots stayed in taverns or took nights off into the city to get rip-roaring drunk.

Once Kirk had made his way into the night, Sören watched as Mr. Carlyle turned and looked straight at him. Sören thought he had been quiet and that the shadows had concealed his form.

“Sören?” Mr. Carlyle asked into the darkness, “I know you’re hiding kid.” Stepping out into the light of the harbour, Sören tugged the huge shirt W.D. had given him closer.

“How much did you hear?”

“Enough,” Sören said and after a moment of silence he continued, “I’m leaving. I’ve put you guys in enough danger as it is.”

“No you’re not," Mr. Carlyle said putting his big hands on Sören’s thinned shoulders, “Kirk is an ass. Those guys in that tent love you.”

“They wouldn’t love me if they got arrested,” Sören grumbled, looking at the ground.

“You aren’t getting arrested, they aren’t getting arrested. No one is going to jail if no one knows.”

“But everyone knows-,” Sören said and he could feel the tears sliding down his cheeks.

“That you’re a guy,” Mr. Carlyle provided, “I don’t see anything illegal about that.” Sören turned his face back up to Mr. Carlyle’s and gave a weak smile. Pulling him into a hug, Sören felt his skin being warmed by that of Mr. Carlyle’s as he was led back into the tent and shown his pallet.

“Good night Sören,” he whispered, “We’ll keep you safe.”

 

Sören sat with the group in the performance ring, eating hard bread and soft water and listened to Mr. Carlyle describing how they could modify their group routines. They decided that for the next show, in two weeks, Sören would join them in their well choreographed and practiced routines.

The first show, Sören would do one trapeze act with W.D. and Anne would do the rest. It would be her last show until after the baby would be born. Sören would also learn two dance routines, called “Come Alive” and “The Greatest Show.”

Having no idea what they entailed, he was enthused. After Anne drew the formations on a black chalkboard O’Clancy pulled out of the back room, the group started suggesting where to add him in.

Coming to a conclusion based on his height and lack of experience, Mr. Carlyle sent them to the dressing area to change into practice appropriate clothing.

Approaching Mr. Carlyle, Sören said, “Excuse me sir, but I don’t have any clothes other than these.” Motioning to the singular pair of clothing Sören had bought after arriving in America, Mr. Carlyle nodded and muttered something before walking at a surprisingly fast pace to the changing area.

Soon he had an armful of different clothing from various people and a new fabric wrapping from Lettie.

“Get changed, then we’ll get started,” Mr. Carlyle told him before walking away. Sören looked around, unsure of just where to change, but everyone else was just putting on other clothes out in the open.

Following their lead, Sören pulled off his shirt and got to work wrapping the considerably longer piece of fabric around his midsection. After putting on a shirt from one of the jugglers, Sören basked in the feeling of the fabric lying flat on his chest once again.

Carefully ignoring Kirk’s well aimed and well timed glares, Sören pushed the guilt flaring up in his gut down and followed Lettie out to the ring.


	4. Greatest Show

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More Cartwheeler, first singing scene.

It was not like Sören was uncoordinated, he had just never danced like this before. He had never moved his body like this in his life. It was so energetic, lively and fast.

While they were taking a water break, Sören asked W.D., “How long have you been doing this routine?”

“Going on five years,” W.D. said and Anne added, “The Greatest Show was the first routine PT taught us.”

“Mr. Barnum?” Sören asked, “He danced with you guys?”

“Of course. Then he passed the reins over to Phillip,” Lettie said, “Now he dances with us.”

“I thought Mr. Carlyle was just the ring leader, not a performer as well,” Sören commented.

“He’s a good dancer,” Anne said wiggling her eyebrows, which made the group laugh.

Setting down the cups of water and walking back to the ring, Sören noticed a group of musicians setting up their equipment off to the side of the performance area. “They play with us?” Sören asked Lettie quitely. It was quite a large group of musicians with a massive percussion session.

“Yup. PT set them up with us a few years ago when he toured with Jenny Lind,” Lettie replied. Sören had heard mutterings back in Germany about how the British singer had toured with PT Barnum before the show was abruptly canceled. Never too concerned with the gossip of the house keepers or cooks, Sören never paid great attention to the affairs of others. Now he wished he was more curious.

“Ready?” Mr. Carlyle asked, “We’re going to run a full equipment run through of Greatest Show.”

“Full equipment?” W.D. asked, lacing up his purple booties next to Anne.

“That’s what I just said, no?” Mr. Carlyle replied before walking over to a chair and grabbing his top hat and cane. They probably looked ridiculous, these circus performers doing their acts without any of the official clothing but the necessary items. Mr. Carlyle looked really funny in a well worn dress shirt, buttoned all the way up his neck, short courier pants and his fancy top hat and cane. W.D. and Anne in their trapeze booties and midsection bands, but with loose, collarless shirts and pants.

Once Mr. Carlyle briefed the musicians - Sören wouldn’t call them an orchestra, they were lacking some instruments - everyone took their places. Lettie stood next to Sören and he waited for her tap on his shoulder to begin. Stomping his foot along with the rest of the ensemble _, Thump, Thump Thump_ , he wondered where Mr. Carlyle was.

 _Woah_!

The people around him started shouting. Then he heard his voice.

_Ladies and Gents this is the moment you’ve waited for._

Then the ensemble around him started singing. He had been instructed to “just dance. You can learn the music later.”

_Been searching in the dark, your sweat soaking through the floor._

Mr. Carlyle’s voice sang again and they all held still.

_And buried in your bones there’s an ache you can’t ignore. Taking your breath, stealing your mind, and all that was real was left behind._

Moving again with the almost violent playing of the band, Sören finally understood the draw of the Barnum circus. You were transported to another place, time and space.

_There’s something breaking at the brick of every wall it’s holding. I’ll let you now, so tell me do you wanna go?_

Mr. Carlyle’s voice crescendoed through the line and suddenly Sören spotted him as he ran out into the ring. Lettie tapped his shoulder and Sören knew he would never forget this introduction ever again. The ensemble around him started sing - or chanting - while they danced in perfect unison with Mr. Carlyle.

 _Where it's covered in all the colored lights. Where the runaways are running the night. Impossible comes true, it's taking over you. Oh, this is the greatest show. We light it up, we won't come down. And the sun can't stop us now. Watching it come true, it's taking over you. Oh, this is the greatest show_.

 

“You need to let go of your rope for W.D. to actually be able to catch you,” Anne said after another failed attempt at performing even the simplest catch, release sequence. Sören knew Anne was being stern because the first show - and her baby - were quickly approaching.

The thought of jumping off the tower and letting go of the rope and expecting someone you had known for a week to catch you seemed daunting.

At first Mr. Carlyle had asked Anne to go easy on him, now he just stayed out of the way of the ball of nervous energy that was his future wife.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So my parents have only let me see Greatest Showman once. This singing scene and the next ones are completely from memory.


	5. Come Alive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Soren has a little gender dysphoria fueled breakdown in this chapter. Lettie is there for him, don't worry.
> 
> And sorry, there is no Cartwheeler in this chapter. Just wait till next chapter...

Standing behind the row of benches with O’Clancy, they watched as Mr. Carlyle stood in the center of the ring. Once again, in only pieces of their costumes, the orchestra played the opening chords to “Come Alive.”

Looking into the rafters where Sören would eventually be stationed during this song, he spotted Anne and W.D. getting ready to trapeze their way through the song.

 _You stumble through your days. Got your head hung low. Your skies are a shade of grey_.

It was incredible the amount of stage presence that Mr. Carlyle possessed as he was the sole singer in the ring.

About a minute into the song, Lettie joined him.

_We'll be the light that's shining. Bottle up and keep on trying. You can prove there's more to you. You cannot be afraid._

Following Anne’s cue, the rest of the ensemble ran to the stage as Mr. Carlyle ran off.

 _Come alive, come alive. Go and light your light. Let it burn so bright. Reach it up. To the sky. And it's open wide. You're electrified_.

Doing the dance choreography in almost exact sync with the others around him, Sören listened to the lyrics for the first time.

_And we know, we can't be go back again. To the world that we were living in. 'Cause we're dreaming with our eyes wide open. 'Cause we're dreaming with our eyes wide open. So come alive._

But too soon the music stopped and the movement ceased. And Sören realized he had been crying.

Trying to make to the back, darker area where no one could see the tear marks, Lettie stopped him.

“Are you okay?” she asked, concern lacing her voice, “You aren’t hurt, are you?”

“I’m fine Lettie,” Sören said and tried to turn to continue to the back area. Once again she stopped him.

“This song is emotional for everyone,” she assured him with a slight smile, “don’t worry so much Sören. You’re too young to worry so much.”

 

W.D.’s hands gripped his wrists tight and Sören held on just as tight. There was no harness or safety catch this time.

He had let go of his rope and caught W.D.’s wrists. On the other side, W.D. was hanging by the crooks of his knees upside down off his wooden swing waiting to catch Sören.

It was exhilarating. Even though they were not doing huge releases or catches, Sören loved it.

Over the week that they had been practicing, Sören even noticed some thin lines of muscle appearing on his stomach and arms. It felt amazing. He was finally fitting in with this rag-tag group of people and was getting good at the two dance routines he had learned.

There were two routines left to learn, plus getting better at trapeze. Sören was working sixteen hours a day to get ready. The big show was only five days away.

 

The purple costume fit snug. Really snug. A new fabric wrapping Lettie had given him was secured around his chest, but the costume still revealed too much of a feminine form.

Sören smiled the entire time Mr. Carlyle adjusted the tight fabric, smiled as Anne brushed his lengthening hair, smiled as W.D. gave him a pair of purple booties that matched his.

But Lettie still found him sitting on some of the traveling crates just hours before his first show crying again.

“Honey,” Lettie, already dressed in her beautiful magenta dress with her beard meticulously combed, said as she sat next to Sören, “What’s wrong?”

How could he begin to explain? He looked like a girl. The purple stretchy material. The length of his hair. The lack of flatness on his chest. Plus, he was performing with W.D., only on the low ropes, while Anne did her final show before Mr. Carlyle benched her.

“Nothing is working,” Sören scowled down at his costume, pinching the fabric and pulling it away from his chest.

“After this show, I’m going to ask Phillip if we can get you a corset,” Lettie said, wrapping a warm arm around Sören’s shoulders. It was a motherly comfort he had lacked since before he left Germany.

“But don’t corsets push your bust up and out?” Sören had had plenty of experience wearing a corset, and it just amplified his chest in the past.

“Worn how you expect yes,” Lettie said, “but, worn higher and over your fabric wrapping, it would flatten your chest.”

“You would ask Mr. Carlyle about that?” Sören said, spirits lifting substantially.

“Of course honey,” Lettie replied, “lets go perform this show.”


	6. PT Barnum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter was super long and I had to split it in two.
> 
> Enter PT Barnum and his family

“Sören, there’s someone I want you to meet,” Mr. Carlyle said, grabbing his bicep and dragging him towards the circus performance ring again.

The show had gone off without a hitch. Mr. Carlyle charmed the crowd, Lettie had sung her heart out, Anne had given a tearful farewell to the trapeze world for the next seven months and Sören had not messed up any aspect of any of his routines.

Being pulled up to a man in a navy blue suit and top hat, flanked by a blond woman and two young girls, Sören wondered if this was one of their few sponsors.

“This is the boy I was telling you about,” Mr. Carlyle said by way of introduction of Sören to this family. The little girls were wearing matching dresses and looked surprisingly like their father. And they were staring at Sören with confused looks on their faces.

Wrapping his arms around himself and pulling the huge beige shirt W.D. had given him closer, Sören attempted at hiding in the fabric.

“You did very good on the trapeze young man,” the man said. His voice was rich and deep and Sören wondered if he had sung at some point. “Was this your first show?”

“Yes sir,” Sören said, deliberately lowering his voice to sound more masculine.

“Is he taking Anne’s place?” The man asked, directing the conversation towards Mr. Carlyle again. Sören took a moment to wonder how this man knew the performers on a first name basis. Who was this man?

“Next show, hopefully,” Mr. Carlyle replied while simultaneously unbuttoning his red suit jacket. “W.D. is training him to take the majority of Anne’s parts that are gender-neutral.”

“What is your name young man?” The man asked and Sören was amazed that his cover was still holding.

“Sören Bachmeier,” he replied.

“You’re German?” The man asked.

“Yes sir.”

After Sören answered, the man extended his hand and said, “I am Phineas Taylor Barnum.” Mouth agape, Sören slowly extended his hand and shook hands with the co-owner and founder of the very circus he was performing in.

“Close your mouth kid,” Mr. Carlyle chided him and Sören snapped his jaw closed. It only took a few more seconds before they were ambushed by the other performers.

Everyone started surrounding the Barnum’s. Anne hugged the bigger Barnum girl - Caroline - and started talking with her while the smaller one - Helen - exchanged fist bumps with W.D., Fedo and Charles. It seemed like, back in the day, these people knew Mr. Barnum really well.

Stepping away from the crowd, Sören took a seat on one of the sparkly performance boxes and started unlacing the purple booties he still wore. Looking at the group of people around Mr. Barnum and the empty big top, Sören marveled at the change in his life over the last four weeks. Even if he was delirious from a fever for half of them. He had a job that was his and - like Mr. Carlyle promised - a family.

“Sören is a funny name,” a young chirpy voice said and Sören jumped. Sitting down beside him was Helen.

“It’s German,” Sören said in the lower voice. If he could fool the Barnums, then he could fool anyone.

“I like your hair,” Helen said, reaching out and touching one of his lengthening ringlets. He would either have to chop his unruly mess of hair off or start tying it back. Finally pulling off one of the trapeze booties, Sören placed it next to him, on his other side from Helen, and started working on the opposite foot.

“Thank you,” Sören said, turning his head to look at Helen, “I like your dress.” It was really pretty. It reminded him of a dress he had back in Germany. Pale blue with long sleeves and a big pleat down the front. It was a perfect dress for the daughter of an owner of a circus.

“Helen,” Sören heard Mr. Barnum say and he looked up from where he was working on the laces of the booties. Somehow, they had ended up in a massive knot. Mr. Barnum was walking over to them and Helen jumped up and ran to her father's arms.

“Sören, thank you for keeping this one out of trouble,” he said, tickling his daughter. She squirmed and kicked in his arms and Sören couldn’t help but smile.

“It was no problem sir,” Sören replied.

“Please, all your friends call me PT, you can too,” he said. Sören smiled and remembered that for next time.

“Did you really think I did a good job?” Sören asked. He wanted to know if PT was just blowing smoke up his skirt to boost his ego.

“Yes. For someone who almost died a few weeks ago that had never trapezed before in their life. Yes.”

“Thank you,” Sören said and tried to crack a smile. His ribs were aching from his wrapping and he was breathing shallower than normal.

“Are you okay?” PT asked, picking up on Sören’s discomfort.

“I’m fine,” Sören lied. He just needed to loosen the damn wrapping.

“Anyways, I was asking Phillip about joining you guys again for another show or two,” PT told him. Settling Helen down on her feet, she ran towards her mother. Sören wondered why PT was telling him this.

“Do you sing? I don’t think I heard you tonight.”

“I wasn’t singing. Mr. Carlyle just wanted me to dance for now.”

“Can you sing?”

“Yes sir.”

“I was wondering because, I have a plan. I want you to be a younger version of me for a song. It is Charity - my wife’s - fortieth birthday in a month. There was a song we sang when we were your age. I wanted to reenact it. You would be me, Caroline would be Charity.”

“Thank you for the thought sir, but why me? You barely know me.”

“I think you have the guts and the talent. And you’re the youngest male performer,” PT added before chuckling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate hate hate the ending of this chapter. I'll try to beta it soon.


	7. Flames

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is part 2 of the previous chapter. Enter Phillip and Anne being cute.

“Great performance today guys,” Mr. Carlyle said as he walked back stage with Anne. Most of the crew had changed out of their costumes - Sören had the second he was able to. Anne was covered in a robe and Mr. Carlyle was in the process of shrugging out of his red jacket.

Sören had perched himself on one of the boxes and listened while Mr. Carlyle spoke amimatetly about the show. Swinging his arms around to illustrate his points, Mr. Carlyle had started subconsciously unbuttoning his white collared shirt.

For the first time, Sören saw him without his shirt done up to his chin. He had noticed the nasty scarring above his left eye, but now he could see angry and twisted red skin just below where his collar usually sat. Mr. Carlyle undid the buttons to just below his collar bones and Sören saw how it looked like their ringleader had had a run-in with intense flames at some point.

Quickly looking away, he focused on his own hands. Calluses marked his palms and muscles were easily defined up along his forearms.

“Sören,” Mr. Carlyle said and he jerked his head back into reality. He had now even rolled his sleeves up his arms, exposing scaring there. Sören was sure he had see the marks on his hands, but in the dim light of the tent, he was never sure if it was actually scaring. Now he was certain.

“Yes sir?” Sören replied, pulling his eyes up to meet their ringleaders face.

“Congratulations on your first show kid,” he said and Sören did a half bow from where he sat on his box. “Since tomorrow is Saturday, we are running a matinee and night show, so get some rest guys. I’ll see you for a quick practice tomorrow morning.”

Dismissing them, Sören hung back. Slowly putting his stuff away in its respective space, he could hear soft voices singing from the stage. Moving as quietly as possible, he stayed in the shadows to watch the ring.

Anne was up in the rafters with her rope and she was swinging around singing quietly to Mr. Carlyle, who still stood on the ground.

_All I want is to fly with you_

Anne sung as she gracefully came up beside Mr. Carlyle.

_All I want is to fall with you._

Reaching out to touch his arm, Sören watched him flinch and pull away from her touch.

 _So just give me all of you_.

She slowly moved her hand up his scared arm and Sören could see how he was fighting either pain or fear to lean into the touch when he sung,

_It feels impossible._

Kissing him quickly, Anne sung,

 _It’s not impossible_.

Sören knew he should leave, they didn’t deserve him eavesdropping. Turning he heard Mr. Carlyle ask,

 _Is it impossible? Say that it’s possible_ ,

He walked out of hearing range.

 

Sören hadn’t worn a corset in a long time. This one was softer, without the whale bone ribbing they usually contained.

Lettie had tied it higher on his chest, before tying the ribbon around his ribcage. Once she was satisfied with her work, Lettie told him to take a look in the mirror.

Sören couldn’t believe the sight he saw before him. His chest, flatter than the fabric had ever made it, looked almost masculine. It was tight, but in a different way than the wrapping before.

Snugger across the front and not as much around the sides and back, Sören tested the mobility of it. Without whale bones, he could twist almost entirely around through his back and curve his spine forward and back.

“Thank you Lettie,” he cried, practically throwing himself at her. Once she released him from the killer hug, Sören saw Anne and Mr. Carlyle standing in doorway.

Anne would later deny it, but he swore he saw a tear in the corner of her eye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been reading through some other Phillip x Anne posts on this cite and I've noticed a lack of post fire Phillip. I decided to start exploring how the fire at the circus truly affected Phillip.
> 
> Soren uses a corset in this story as a binder. Binders did not exist in the late 1800's, but if they did, Lettie would have got him one of those instead.  
> If you are pre-surgery FTM, PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE do not bind with anything else other than a binder. Not ace bandages, tensor bandages, athletic tape, duct tape, or fabrics. Even if those things help alleviate dysphoria temporarily, the effects to your health are so much worse. Plus, if you plan on getting top surgery in the future, binding this way could prevent you from such events. Stay safe!


	8. Fleur-de-Lis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little of explanation is needed for this chapter, my writing brain was not being very articulate today (see the end). This chapter is not super long. Just a quick update.

Soren was sitting up on the trapeze tower one afternoon with W.D. The tall african man, Anne’s older brother, was inspecting the ropes from their last performance. Soren was certain Mr. Carlyle had asked him to help, but W.D. just told him to sit out of his way. The corner of the tower was kind of comfy but Soren kept having to adjust his position when his rear end went to sleep.

“Would you stop fidgeting?” W.D. asked without turning to face Soren. He stopped moving. “You can still breathe,” W.D. snapped once again and Soren took a gulp of air that he hadn’t realized he had stopped taking.

The big man continued inspecting the ropes and when he reached over his head to pull down a coil of cord, the neck hole of his loose fitting shirt slipped off his shoulder. Soren took stalk of black skin marked by a tan fleur-de-lis. A scar. A branding of some sort.

“What’s that on your shoulder?” Soren asked before realizing that the question was likely a sensitive topic.

“You ever heard of a plantation German? W.D. sneered. Soren shook his head “no.” W.D.’s eyes narrowed. Now he had really made the tall, muscled man he was trapped with on a trapeze tower twenty feet off the ground on mad. “Look it up. Go get in some else’s way.” Soren quickly scrambled off his feet and climbed down the ladder.

 

Mr. Carlyle instead sent him to the market with O’Malley, the fat man. O’Malley held a basket and a list written in Fedo’s neat printing. Soren followed the large man from booth to booth listening him barter with the people on prices of meats, carrots and biscuits. Eventually, O’Malley decided he wanted a break, so they sat down at a bench just outside the market.

“What is a plantation?” Soren asked. He had been waiting for an occasion to ask that question since W.D. yelled at him.

“Depends. In America, they are typically for cotton growing,” the man said before returning a question of his own, “Why do you ask?”

Soren just shrugged. He had heard of American cotton farms back in Germany. It was where the housekeepers got their cheap materials from.

“The owners of the plantations have slaves. People brought over from Africa to work for very little or nothing. Many escaped to find better lives,” O’Malley continued between bites of his apple. Soren felt like the large Irishman knew exactly what they were discussing.

“Would the owners brand their slaves?  To mark as their own?” Soren asked. He felt like, if Anne and W.D. had escaped one of the plantations, they were, in a sense, illegals. Their privacy deserved to be kept - they had done it for him.

“Usually. Most times it is the symbol of the owner’s country of origin. Like a fleur-de-lis, for example. Sometimes, the branding is on their back or shoulder. Other times, on their forehead or cheek. Somewhere where they can’t hide it.” Anne and W.D. were lucky then, Soren thought. W.D. had a branding on his shoulder and he hid it with his tight performance shirts. “Lets get back home,” O’Malley said, standing and handing Soren the basket of food they had bought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone for the amazing comments, they have really kept me writing this story. 
> 
> Anyways, just as a recap...  
> W.D. doesn't really want Soren's help, likely because he finds checking the ropes a solitary job. He doesn't hate Soren, just doesn't want his help. 
> 
> At the market, O'Malley is protecting Anne and W.D. because if they are found out, they could be sent back to the plantation or to jail. Either way, not good. So, O'Malley wants to inform Soren of the risks, yet still let him draw his own conclusions.


	9. A Passing Woman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Remember Kirk? He was the guy at the beginning who Phillip got into a yelling match with.

Sitting with W.D., O’Clancy, Chang and Eng, and playing cards, Sören was quite focused on his hand. He really had no idea how to play whatever game they were playing, but with the over-the-shoulder help from Charles, he was holding his own.

“Sören,” he heard Anne call, so he snapped his head up to greet her. But he soon saw her face. It was that of panic and fear, “Sören, the cops are here.”

“For him?” Chang asked, dumping his hand of cards onto the table.

“For suspicion as a ‘passing woman’. They’ve come to arrest you,” Anne said as tears started rolling down her cheeks.

“Anne,” W.D. said standing and framing her cheeks in his hands, “Time?”

“At the door,” she replied tears suddenly ceasing at W.D.’s simple question. Sören knew very little of their past. But he had seen their brandings.

“I’ll hide him,” W.D. said pulling away from Anne and grabbing Sören by the bicep, “go help Phillip dissuade them of this ridiculous notion.”

Not waiting for verbal confirmation of agreeance from Anne, W.D. dragged him off towards one of the back rooms. On the wall hung a crowbar. Sören had seen O’Clancy use it when they opened one of the crates days ago. W.D. took it down and cracked open a crate. Inside were costumes from a themed performance and Sören was told to climb inside and stay in the middle, well buried.

“Don’t come out unless Charles comes to get you, yah?” W.D. commanded and Sören nodded before the crate was sealed and he was enveloped in darkness. _How do I know where halfway is? It’s a long crate_. Crawling forward, Sören figured, _He probably wanted me away from either side unless they crack the crate_. Moving in a little more, he buried in the clothes and waited.

 

Sören was still shaking. He couldn’t get over the guilt of what had happened. And nothing - really - had happened. Mr. Carlyle was right. He had managed to change his appearance - thinning out and adding muscle - enough to not look like Francesca anymore. The cops had no evidence. It was just whatever drunken tip Kirk had given them. Which, given the state Kirk was in when Mr. Carlyle dragged him into his office an hour ago, was taken way too seriously.

But Anne and Lettie had sat him down between them and had gotten to work cutting his hair. The blond ringlets fell to the ground on either side of him and Sören felt more and more of Francesca leaving. But Sören could not have felt worse. Everyone was on edge from the encounter with the cops and he blamed himself. He was the true freak at this show. Not Lettie, or Fedo or Chang and Eng. It was him. He was eventually going to end up in jail for it. Even though Mr. Carlyle suggested that he never print his name on material, Sören was certain that it would not help and would not solve anything.

“You will always be Sören to us,” Mr. Carlyle promised after the confrontation. He did feel marginally safer knowing that Kirk was in the process of being fired. But now he would be out there, on the streets, looking for revenge.

“He’ll get in trouble at some point, then he’ll be the one getting locked up.”

What did worry him was the knowledge that Kirk would have to do something - something bad - to get locked up. No one knew what he would do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys for sticking with this story for so long. As usual, comments are appreciated.


	10. Losing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So I have zero self control. I will either write for hours in a row or not at all for weeks, never in between. This is a hour chapter.

Smoke curled around Mr. Carlyle’s head. Soren had ate his supper quickly and made his way down to the docks. He liked to think down there. It was quiet and while the noise of the circus could be heard, it was significantly quieter. Tonight, Mr. Carlyle had decided to join him.

Holding out the cigarette to Soren, he replied with a soft, “No thank you.”

Mr. Carlyle just shrugged and pulled it back to his own lips. “I started smoking a while back,” Mr. Carlyle said, even though Soren had not asked why such an outwardly prim and proper man such as himself was smoking. “Just after PT recruited me to join the circus, he left on a tour with an opera singer. Fedo noticed that I was too stressed all the time and gave me one of his cigarettes. Soothes your bones.”

Leaning his head back and taking another puff of the cigarette, he asked, “What did you like to do in Germany?”

“What do you mean?”

“What do children of German barons do for fun?” he rephrased.

“I really liked spending time with the cooks. Got really good at cooking too.” Soren could remember all those early mornings and late evenings he spent, head barely staying upright.

“I never learned how to cook,” Mr. Carlyle said, extinguishing the cigarette in the gravel next to his leg. “My parents never taught me, then when I joined the circus, O’Clancy just cooks for everyone anyways.”

 

And that was when they heard shouts come from the tents. Mr. Carlyle jumped from his position beside Soren and started running towards the tents. Soren stood and followed, though his short legs could barely keep up with Mr. Carlyle’s.

Ducking their heads through one of the multiple tent flaps on the dock side of the circus, Soren first ran straight into the ringleader’s muscled back. Mr. Carlyle had completely frozen and Soren wondered what his problem was when he smelt it.

Smoke.

The tent was on fire. The crew was over on one side, near where he knew the animals were held and Soren figured they were doing good enough.

“Come on, Mr. Carlyle,” Soren said to the frozen ringleader. “We gotta get out of here!” Flames were licking up on of the sides of the tent and Soren could only think about getting everyone out.

“Soren, go get the firemen!” Mr. Carlyle shouted before turning and running across the flaming tent floor towards the rest of the crew. Soren stepped back outside into the semi clean air of the docks.

 

The cobblestones of New York city clicked under his shoes as Soren sprinted towards the nearest firehall. He remembered O’Malley pointing it out to him a few days back while they were walking home from the market. The hall was tall and made of solid brick. He pushed open the heavy wood door next to the horse carriages and ran in.

“Fire!” he shouted, not knowing what else to do, “There is a fire at the circus!” Two men dressed in smokey black and red coats burst through some more doors near the back of the building.

“Down by the docks?” one of the men with a big mustache asked. When Soren nodded, the other man ran to the big silver coloured bell on one of the wagons and started ringing furiously. The noise ran through the hall and echoed off all the stones. Seemingly, out of the woodwork, more men started appearing. They were all dressed similar and started piling into the carriages. Some hooked up the horses while others opened the barn style doors.

“Fire’s at the circus gents!” One man with a golden coloured helmet on shouted, “We want those shipping terminals to stay safe!”

 

The circus had almost completely collapsed when Soren got back. He had ran after the carriages, but with four horses, they were significantly faster.

“Soren,” Lettie cried when she saw him run up. Enveloped in a tight hug, Soren smelt the sting of ash in the air. Once she let go of him, Soren looked around.

He did a quick head count before shouting, “Where is Anne?”

He watched W.D. frantically whip his head around, “I don’t see her. Where’s Phillip?” Soren confirmed the question when he saw neither Anne nor Mr. Carlyle.

“Not again,” Lettie wailed, pulling Soren close before whispering, “not again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to leave it on such a cliff hanger.
> 
> So, Mr. Carlyle has a pretty good case of PTSD and that was why he froze at the door to the circus. 
> 
> As always, comments are welcome.


	11. Losing Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So the chapter "losing" was originally going to be one chapter, but it was massive, so I split it up into three.

Sören saw a man, emerging from the flames. And he was carrying someone.

Taking off at a sprint, Sören followed W.D. towards the people and saw it was Mr. Carlyle and Anne.

Mr. Carlyle had blood smeared on his shirt, and the sleeves were seared off.

And Anne, her hair was almost completely signed off, dress ripped and when she coughed, more blood landed on her fiance's shirt.

“She’s alive!” he shouted, laying her down on a stretcher that the firemen had brought forward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this was so short, I felt like messing around with the chapter length for dramatic effect.


	12. Losing Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once again, everyone remember Kirk?

Sören had only ever seen someone so close to death once before. It was back home in Germany. His little brother had decided to go play in the river on their property one day, completely unsupervised. After being washed downstream, the county doctor determined that the water he had swallowed had infected his lungs. Juneess Adenauer died twelve days later.

When Sören looked at Anne, head bandaged and face bruised, he wondered if she was going to die.

“Mr. Carlyle?” Sören asked, putting his hand lightly on the ringleader’s shoulder. Since the fire almost two days ago, the man hadn’t left her side.

“I saved her this time,” he said quietly, picking at the white cloth tied around his forearms, his voice raspier than usual. Mr. Carlyle had had to get both his arms bandaged again over the old scars.

“I beg your pardon?” Sören asked, sitting on the second chair next to the ringleader. He found from this position, he could watch her chest moving up and down, slowly, but still moving. The swell of her stomach and the subsequent child inside her had become gradually larger in the past little while.

“The circus burnt down six years ago, back when we owned more than just a tent by the docks,” Mr. Carlyle said quietly. So he had burnt his arms in a fire before. That was why he had completely frozen up when they entered the burning tent.

“Some protesters set the fire. I was getting everyone out and I couldn’t find Anne. So I ran back into the circus. Didn’t get very far. A timber collapsed right on top of me. Turns out that Anne ran upstairs then took the outside escape down to the street. Barnum saved me, you know. Pulled me right out. In the hospital, Anne never left my side.”

Sören felt he couldn’t do much more than just nod. He could not comfort the hurt of almost losing the one person you loved more than anything twice.

 

“We found a dead body in the remains one of the storage rooms,” a fireman in a suit told them the next day.

In the absence of Mr. Carlyle, who was still at the hospital with Anne, Lettie had appointed herself temporary ringleader. The entire troop had set up a temporary dwelling with the travel tents near the remains of the old set up and were eating supper when the fireman had come in.

“There was nearly nothing left of the body, but we found this near the victim,” the fireman said.

“I’m sorry sir,” Lettie replied, taking the silver alcohol flask from the man, “but it was not one of our own, we are all in attendance.” The rest of the crew stayed silent and while the fireman did not look impressed by that answer, he nodded and turned on his heel to leave.

Once the man was long gone, Lettie wound up and threw the flask at one of the boxes.

“I guess we know how the storage room caught fire,” W.D. grumbled. Sören felt like he was missing a part of the conversation and said so.

“That,” Fedo said, pointing at the flask, now half a room away from where it started, “Was Kirk’s.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So i don't know, as no one does at this point, how the interior workings of what actually happened at the fire scene in the movie actually went down, so, you know, I took some artistic liberties.


	13. Was Not Meant To Be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, I had no homework today from school and I decided, "Hey, why not write more of this story?" I finished it. I literally finished a whole story in one sitting.

A lady in a white dress burst into the temporary tent that had been set up. Sören, who had sulking by the door at the time, jumped up to greet her. The lady looked stunned and shaken, but composed herself quickly.

“I am looking for a William Daniel Wheeler,” she said, looking at the note scribbled on paper in her hand. _William Daniel Wheeler?_ Sören thought hard, before remembering, _Anne Wheeler_. She was looking for W.D.

“I’ll go get him,” Sören said, stomach plummeting. Did something happen to Anne?  W.D. wasn’t lying on his pallet, where he usually was these past few days. The storage room was empty as well and Sören started looking towards the roof supports.

“W.D.,” he shouted when he spotted the large man in the rafters, “Get down here, a nurse from the hospital is looking for you!”

Moving cautiously but quickly, W.D. climbed back down to the floor and shouted, “Where is she?”

“At the main entrance,” Sören replied and was left in the dust when W.D. ran in that direction. They headed out the door and when W.D. didn’t return for hours, he started getting nervous.

 

Mr. Carlyle stumbled into the makeshift dwelling completely drunk that night. Sören was certain that Mr. Carlyle was a man who abstained from the drink, however upon seeing him, shirt half open, and hair askew, he knew their ringleader was completely sloshed.

Lettie managed to corral him towards the table they had set up with a box and a plank of wood. O’Clancy pried the bottle of brown alcohol from his grip and when he did, it was like he had turned on a faucet. Tears poured from his eyes and Sören was certain Anne had died. Otherwise Mr. Carlyle wouldn’t be in such a state.

Eventually, the story started coming out. It had started earlier in the day when Anne had a bout of catalepsy. The doctors were not sure what had caused it, but then she went into labour. They had to remove the child. The child was too young to survive without the mother and died. Now, Anne had childbed fever.

For whatever reason, Mr. Carlyle determined that a good way of forgetting about everything was drinking himself into oblivion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1800s medical term translations:  
> Catalepsy is a seizure  
> Childbed fever was caused from incorrect sanitary techniques in the delivery of a child (unborn or not) that caused the mother and potentially the infant to contract a serious fever.
> 
> So sorry about the kid.


	14. Everything is my Fault

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, this is a short chapter again. It was originally going to be longer, more angsty-er, but it isn't.

Sören had to keep moving. The second he stopped doing something, his brain would take over.

If he never agreed to join this circus, they would still be performing, Anne would still have her baby, Mr. Carlyle wouldn’t have gotten burnt again, and Kirk would still be alive.

Lettie assured him that it wasn’t his fault, that Kirk’s anger and hatred towards everyone would have gotten him put in the ground or in jail sooner or later.

Mr. Carlyle assured him that the baby was never meant to be, and even if it was, he didn’t set the tent on fire.

W.D. told him that they could rebuild, just like they had done in the past.

But Sören wasn’t convinced.

He may as well have burnt down the circus himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just imagine that for the next few chapters, Soren is feeling just crappy about what happened.


	15. Rebuilding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lets give a warm welcome to the one, the only PT Barnum!
> 
> For Anne's hair in this chapter, picture the look she's got going in this interview:  
> https://youtu.be/mriYyuDmB58

“How are my favorite performers?” A low voice asked, ringing through the hollows of the circus tents. They were sitting backstage when PT rounded the corner.  Bombarded with greetings, PT was suddenly the center of attention, addressing everyone individually. He asked about Fedo’s studies, Charles art, Lettie’s newspaper collection and how Anne was feeling.

Then, he corralled Mr. Carlyle into his office to discuss “things of utmost importance.”

Anne had come home from the hospital two days ago after her fever cleared. Her hair had been cropped from its previous waist length glory to cheek height to help hide the burns. Her right wrist was still bandaged, but otherwise, Anne was physically back at the circus.

Mentally, she seemed like she was not on this planet. Her mind was in the clouds most of the time and she was often found in the rafters. How she climbed up there one armed, Soren had no idea, but she did. Then, Mr. Carlyle would coax her down and they would sit off to one side of the tent while Anne cried.

Sometimes, she would just wander. Aimlessly, she would pace back and forth across the floor of the tent, stumbling over items that were in her way that she did not notice. Mr. Carlyle would join her too. Together, they would pace, Mr. Carlyle holding her uninjured hand and watching her glazed over eyes. Some nights, she would cry herself to sleep, others, she never slept.

Currently, she was just staring blankly at the tent wall while PT asked her how she was feeling. Mr. Carlyle just said something quietly to the considerably taller man and PT nodded. Then they left to Mr. Carlyle’s office, with Lettie promising to come get him if they needed something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I know that PT would have likely come to visit his performers right after the circus burnt down and he learned Anne was in the hospital. I didn't mean this chapter in the sense that PT is being a negligent circus dad or anything, its more like he was out of counrty and hurried back as soon as possible. Given the slow rate of travel back then, it would have taken a few days.


	16. Building

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They put together a new circus tent, Anne and Soren have a chat.

Soren felt the strain in his muscles even more now than he had ever when he was training for the trapeze. W.D. was holding onto his shoulders, ancorning him to the ground at they raised the new tent. The cloth had come on a boat from England yesterday and they got started assembling the new, clean, fresh and all one piece tent.

It was bigger than before, that was PT’s idea. Bigger, better, taller, more substantial. The main supports were even made out of galvanized steel.

The tent started raising and once it was taught, W.D. pulled the grounding rope beside Soren and ancored it to the ground with many strikes of a rather larger hammer.

 

Soren couldn’t sleep. The new tent was nice, it even had bigger living quarters that were divided by strips of extra cloth, but it made weird noises when the wind blew through.

Getting up and pulling on his shoes, Soren made his way to the exit. The hot sticky air of summer by the New York docks clung to his clothes and made him feel sticky. Gravel crunched under his shoes as he made his way down to the water. There were a few steamships in harbour, but nothing too big and certainly nothing too interesting to watch.

“What are you doing out here?” A soft voice asked. Soren turned and saw Anne. She was wrapped in a blanket, the one that Mr. Carlyle usually kept in his office.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Soren said, leaning against the wooden railing overlooking the harbour.

Anne leaned next to him and said, “Me neither.” They stood in silence for a while before Anne said, “have you ever been to the theatre?”

“In Germany, yes,” Soren replied, “have you?”

“A few times,” she said, “when I was little, that was all I wanted, was to see a theatre production. Then, I finally got to go and it wasn’t all that spectacular.”

“What do you mean?” Soren asked. He had barely heard Anne speak a complete sentence in months, and now that she was talking, he never wanted her to stop.

“I mean, I had been performing with the circus for about a year and a half before I ever went to the theatre. And it’s just so dull compared to what we do.”

“I guess so,” Soren said. Once you saw the Barnum circus, there was really nothing else that was better. “I remember seeing one of Shakespeare’s plays back in Germany. It made very little sense. I guess I was too little to appreciate it back then.”

“How old are you?” Anne asked abruptly changing the subject.

“Probably almost thirteen now,” Soren said. He had lost track of time with the circus. Had you told him the date, he could tell you how old he was. But he was unsure if July fifteen had already passed them by or not yet. “How about you?”

“Fifteen or sixteen I think. My mother died giving birth to me and W.D. was only three at the time,” she said and Soren could see her eyes glazing over.  “Have you ever been in love," she asked, changing the subject yet another time.

“No,” Soren muttered quietly.

“It’s the most wonderful feeling,” Anne said, fingers playing with the tassels on the blanket she had wrapped around herself, “I just wish I was able to actually marry Phillip. I guess being his fiancee is good enough for now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Phillip did take Anne to the theatre
> 
> Think of this chapter of being considerably after the last one. The material from the tent would have had to have come from overseas, so picture this chapter a few months in the future. Anne is recovering, slowly.
> 
> In this story Anne is considerably younger than Zendaya and W.D. is also quite young. People lived shorter lives back then...what can I say?


	17. Getting Ready

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rehearsals restart

“The circus won’t actually open again for another few weeks,” PT announced.

The older man had become a fixture at the circus since it burnt down, allowing Mr. Carlyle to have time to help Anne get better.

“So, I want every performer practicing their routines with the new equipment. Individual practice time will be before lunch, group rehearsals will be after lunch. Everyone understand?” The whole crew nodded and gradually they dispersed to analyze their new territory.

 

“Climb up Soren,” W.D. said pointing up a ladder significantly taller than the one from the old circus tent. The platform was higher than the old one and had yet not been outfitted with a barrier. There was nothing separating Soren and W.D. from the considerable drop down towards the sandy and hay covered earth below them. Even with the harness uncomfortably snugged around his waist, shoulders and legs, thus attaching Soren safely to the rope W.D. was snugging through one of the fabric loops.

“Same thing as before, yeah? Nothing’s changed,” W.D. said as he snugged the last knot tight.

“Except that it's so much higher,” Soren said, inching closer to the edge of the platform.

And then he was falling. This time he didn’t scream. He didn’t panic, just righted himself and listened to W.D. laughing hard from the tower. Once the swinging slowed enough for Soren to look up at W.D. and glare at him, he knew that getting used to going off this considerably higher tower would be easy.

“Good job Soren, now just make it more beautiful,” Mr. Carlyle shouted from his position in the corner with PT where they were scheming over a notebook.

Anne sat beside them wrapped in Mr. Carlyle’s blanket once again and for the first time in weeks, he saw her crack a smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has stuck with me on this story thus far... it's almost at the conclusion!


	18. Flying High

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lights, curtain, action...or something like that

His purple skin tight suit fit amazingly and with the ruffles Lettie sewed on down the front, his chest looked flat.

Standing up in the tower across from W.D., he waited for the other man’s nod before grabbing the bar just above his head, flicking the rope holding it in place off and jumping down towards the floor. Once the ropes extended to their full length, Soren started swinging towards W.D. W.D. mirrored his motion from the opposite tower. When they swung close enough, Soren let go of the bar and caught onto W.D.’s ankles.

He listened to the crowd shouting and cheering and knew that, health permitting, he wanted to stay with the circus for as long as he could.

Below them, they had two ringleaders, PT and Mr. Carlyle and the entire crew. Even Anne, who had felt good enough to join the group on a few numbers.

But once Soren finished the trapeze routine, he ran backstage to where Caroline, the elder of the two Barnum children sat, getting ready for their number.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before moving onto the next chapter, may I recommend re-reading chapter 6


	19. Million Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Did you re-read chapter 6?
> 
> Anyways, this chapter was literally written solely based on the amazing transition from young to old PT in million dreams.

Sören liked the feel of the dress pants he wore. They were a little ripped and scuffed from practice, but PT said they looked perfect.

Sören was shaking. His hands would not hold still and the spinning candle light thing PT had provided for his role as “Young Barnum” was rattling. Everyone had given him big hugs before this moment, but Sören was still nervous. This had to be perfect for Charity.

The lights were dark and Sören stood in the middle of the ring with his rattling candle holder. In the dark, Sören closed his eyes and began to sing.

_I close my eyes and I can see. The world that’s waiting up for me. That I call my own._

Striking a match, Sören lit the candle in the metal holder and it lit up his part of the stage. He couldn’t see the crowd, but they were making no noise. They were completely still.

_Through the dark, through the door. Through where no one’s been before. But it feels like home._

He couldn’t hear Caroline’s approach behind him, but he knew she was there. Turning around to face her, she reached out and spun the candle holder. The holes in the metal started making patterns on the big top and he took Caroline’s hand.

_They can say, they can say it all sounds crazy. They can say, they can say I’ve lost my mind._

Placing the candle on the box in the middle of the ring, Sören gave it another spin before running with Caroline to the exterior raised wall of the ring.

_I don’t care, I don’t care, so call me crazy. We can live in a world that we design._

Placing his hands on Caroline’s hips, she gave a little jump and Sören hoisted her onto a fake wall that had been built. Continuing onto the chorus, Sören sung loud.

_'Cause every night I lie in bed. The brightest colors fill my head. A million dreams are keeping me awake._

Caroline joined in with his voice and he stood with his back to the wall next to her as they continued.

_I think of what the world could be. A vision of the one I see. A million dreams is all it's gonna take. A million dreams for the world we're gonna make._

Sören then pushed off the wall and walked to the candle in the center of the stage. Picking it up and giving it a spin, he made his way back to Caroline with it and gave it to her.

_There’s a house we can build. Every room inside is filled. With things from far away._

Hopping off the wall, Caroline walked over to Sören and slotted her hand into his. Facing her he sang.

_The special things I compile. Each one there to make you smile. On a rainy day._

Moving closer to the edge of the stage, they sung together,

_They can say, they can say it all sounds crazy. They can say, they can say we've lost our minds._

Stepping over the lip of the ring, they prepared to make the transition from “Young Barnum” and “Young Charity.” Extinguishing the flame in the candle, Sören sang the last lines of his part as Caroline rang off the stage.

_I don't care, I don't care if they call us crazy. Runaway to a world that we design._

Then PT rang on stage. He knew exactly where Charity was sitting in the audience and Sören ran to her and he and Caroline took her hand. Pushing her towards the stage, PT took her hand and the lights came up.

_Every night I lie in bed. The brightest colors fill my head. A million dreams are keeping me awake._

The look on Charity’s face was one of awe as PT and Charity started dancing, the music from the orchestra picking up.

_I think of what the world could be. A vision of the one I see. A million dreams is all it's gonna take. A million dreams for the world we're gonna make._

Taking her cue, Charity sung in a beautiful - choked up - voice. After they finished and the crowd stood to applaud, Sören watched PT lean over to Charity and say “Happy Birthday.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the second last chapter/last full sized chapter. I hope you guys liked reading this story as much as I enjoyed writing it!


	20. Love and Everything That Comes With It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Note, this chapter takes place at an unspecified date in the future (about ten years in the future).
> 
> Also, interracial marriage was only legalized in the USA in 1967.

Had you asked Soren if he though he would ever fall in love ten years ago, the year he joined the circus, he would have said no. Soren felt that someone like him would never be loved, by a man or a woman.

Actually, to be quite honest, Soren would have told you he felt no sexual inclinations to anyone of either sex. But now, however not married, yet still very much in love, he stood in front of the circus, hand in hand with the man he very much loved. Six years older than himself, considerably taller and more masculine than he could ever be, Soren felt loved back.

And that was all that mattered. If Anne and Phillip could find love, why couldn’t he?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So friends, this is it. I will continue the series in a development of Sörens love life with the unknown mystery character there at the end of the story as well as I'll post some filler chapters in other POVs and from Sörens when I get the chance.
> 
> If anyone has any ideas of what I could fill in from the POVS of another character, I would love to hear it.
> 
> Until next time.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [the world i close my eyes to see](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13906452) by [lykxxn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lykxxn/pseuds/lykxxn)




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